Sunday, September 14, 2025
Son of a gun— half-curse, half-smile, iron in the teeth, dust in the veins, a grin you throw at the world instead of a prayer. Wars in the blood, banners stitched into veins, marrow marching with ghosts, every heartbeat a drumbeat, every joke a live grenade. No time for leave— we do it here. Orders bark, delay is defeat. The field is wherever we stand. Born under fire, give ’em hell,
Saturday, September 13, 2025
Interoperability—exchange, mirror neurons firing, not one, no single hero, a million, all agreed, this is the way, they have spoken. Morning muse over caffeine, grind of sugars, dancing in ashes of spent fuel, aftermath of combustion, fusion reactor, fire in my belly. The clump, the silly dressing, lipsticks and pigs, strength dismantled, redefined, forced to fit the central role in the story of mattering. Feel it in the stomach— the gods grumbling.
Monday, September 1, 2025
Intro A scroll written in the margins of breath and empire, where the body collapses, the system constricts, and survival sounds like a half-joke: let’s go, vámonos, más rápido. What follows is both prayer and rupture, a map of what it feels like to keep moving through the almost-dying times. Scroll The parts of me, the contradiction, the conflict, Luke feels it, Vader fluxing in that quantum haze. The fates, the prophecy,
Thursday, August 28, 2025
✦ CODEX OF THE OPERATOR-FURNACE ✦ A codex for pilots, rebels, and wild ones. I. THE FURNACE oxygen, metabolism, a furnace in the belly where stars once burned and still their echo glows. to convert what’s consumed is no mere survival— it is alchemy: stone to flame, flame to story, story to seed. II. THE OPERATOR we are the question mark between intention and execution, the tremor in the hand
Wednesday, August 27, 2025
The text presents a satirical exploration of disconnection in societal systems through imagery of a deceptive, idyllic future contrasted with underlying despair.
Wednesday, August 27, 2025
Time to roll the hard six, buddy— dice rattle like bones in a soldier’s palm, meteors clattering across the felt of night. The table is cosmic. Every constellation leans forward to see if we dare. There is an intonation the universe can take— a low chord struck at thresholds, a hum beneath the chest, a signal waiting in the static. Not luck, but resonance. Not fortune, but frequency. Then— the ecstasy of stars aligned.
Tuesday, August 26, 2025
Myth fluency, sub routines, the firmware, favoring story — this is the air we psychos breathe, this is the air we psychos breathe. To ritualize is instinct, a narrative reflex, a story for everything, since the first name was given. A story for everything, since the first name was given. The net, the mesh, the nodes and knots, the entangled weave, jutting northeast to the next axis, singing chains of meaning,
Tuesday, August 12, 2025
✦ THE SHADOW INHERITANCE: GWEN’S FRACTURE ✦ A Mythoanatomy of Supplanting, Erasure, and the Ghost Hero I. The Transfer of the Bite In the weave of infinite worlds, the spider moves differently. It does not fall upon the boy — the destined one, the written name in the myth — but instead upon her. The chord changes, but the song remembers its first melody. Every swing in the mask is scored against the ghost of the version that should have been.
Tuesday, August 12, 2025
Up with dog yapping— the kind of dawn you could bottle and sip, half war film, half nectar of gods. The Hunt for Red October in the corner, curled-up hogs in canine form, wet paws still cooling from the morning run, snuggling into our small kingdom after the jaunt. One is resting, deep-breath dreaming. The other snoots at the folds, nesting and kneading the thick-yarned blanket with a devotion both fierce and unnecessary.
Friday, August 1, 2025
Petabytes in a single cell. Romulus, and the dread, wage slave, 24 thousand hours, and a beat down for the synthetic brother. Reset— his autism is shuttered, the despair, the day in and day out, the mines own us, we’re extractors, helping the company take more from the universe. A kid’s rocket— launched for a prospect, a flare of pretend, in a sky already sold. The Anthropocene, and a smoke—
Tuesday, July 22, 2025
A Singular Crystal: Assembled from Clamp, Collapse, and the Cold The new, the every other— when I see them, my brain explodes with possibilities— but a mirror makes me lie flat, play dead. But I know, I’m me, dummy. I’m in the lot outside the tree nursery. I love plants. We’re so aggressive— we eat, chew, grind up, snort and smoke all that chlorophyll, those metabolizers of the sun and water.
Sunday, July 20, 2025
A Sith red glow. Not a procession— an inversion. The aisle walked up, not down. This maiden? Not to be given. Not to be named. Not for sale. The bodies parade: shapes and ratios, percentiles and anomalies, the sus, the bonk, the whittled and wild. A trio of One Piece— perfectly synced— followed by a raptor, inflated and bumping like those TikTok ghouls of viral memory. The absurd has weight.
Thursday, July 10, 2025
✦ THE WILD CRYSTAL OF ARRIVAL ✦ What Comes With the Frigate The frigate split the sky like a blade, not of conquest— but of memory returning. It came bearing all things at once: a ration, a coffin, a whispered name, orders tucked inside propaganda wings. No one ran. They just watched— as dust rose like ghosts in salute. Inside the hull: aid that stings, fire wrapped in velvet codes,
Thursday, July 10, 2025
✦ SCROLL OF STILL RESISTANCE ✦ A Fever Dream in the Kingdom of Standing Still Territory pigs, wild tusks threaten legs, without moving a muscle. The field is quiet. But the air hums like teeth grinding behind a smile. Mud-choked boots sink deeper— the roots won’t let go and neither will the watchers. They don’t chase. They don’t need to. They stand like monuments to punishment. Their breath fogs in spirals, never reaching you,
Thursday, July 10, 2025
A Broadcast from the Quiet Watchers, under surveillance, under breath Be wary. The dangerous ideals of democracy— they glint like shattered glass in the sun, and the king is watching. Not the cartoon crown or the ceremonial throne, but the deep eye behind the curtain, the one that logs keystrokes and measures allegiance in silence. God sees it. And any other conscience—baked in regulation, coded into bylaws, or murmured in sacred halls.
Tuesday, July 8, 2025
I feel the prick of pain in the thumb, top joint, a key metatarsal, critical function— the lynchpin and languishing. That’s just one sting. Now imagine it: 42 times in an hour. The pinching becomes a throb, the ache grows teeth, a chronic pursuit, and my psyche bends around the trap, enslaved to the inescapable. The glint of happy comes tumbling out, a runaway toddler across the room— slipped away,
Sunday, June 22, 2025
scribe with the ink at the ready, to bleed out in testimony — that pen, that etch, the motion and stretch, the sacrament of gesture, word as wound, truth as form. the anatomy of a witness: a third eye, a 3-body problem, meta-mystical, quantum-bent, into the spooky immeasurable, the probabilistic radical, glory flooding the temple, light through machines mistaken only by those who dissect divinity and call it function. alive — johnny appleseed, alive —
Wednesday, June 18, 2025
The morph and form, the treasure of a father figure— and when it’s weaponized, watch ‘em war, watch ‘em go. Protector or predator? Reaper and surveillance drones hum lullabies in foreign tongues. That’s some bloodlust. That’s what we’re looking for. Drop another— whoa. So beautiful, that bloom. From the hills, it looks like a cool light show. All that devastation— and we see the fireworks. Uncle Sam, turned militant patriarch,
Sunday, June 15, 2025
Luck dragon I love you, You little weiner head, Yes, I love you, yes I do. You’re so squishy and licky, A pup in the grass, Sun-baked, hot dog, yes, A little worm, Laying in the light. Goddamnit, You’re driving me mad, Yapping like some sort of freak. Ugh. It’s constant noise. Perpetual drama, And outbursts of self-importance. Noise noise, with you. Clang! Clang! Shut up! She’s insane. Isn’t she, yes she is.
Sunday, June 8, 2025
You are not a person made of cells. You are a salmon made of prayers, swimming upstream through space and time, powered by mitochondrial fire, guided by acoustic harmonics, muscling against entropy, driven by impulses older than stars, toward spawning grounds where new forms of being will muscle into existence through your sacrificial completion.